


Under the Violet Light

by Lumielles



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Arranged Marriage, Brother vs sister, Brother-Sister Relationships, Brothers, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Drama & Romance, Dromund Kaas, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Family Drama, Father-Son Relationship, Force Ghosts, Force Visions, Gen, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Imperial Officers (Star Wars), Mild Sexual Content, Mother-Son Relationship, Nar Shaddaa (Star Wars), Non-Linear Narrative, Pre-Canon, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Tension, Sith Empire, The Force, Time Skips, Ziost (Star Wars), son vs father
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:14:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21987235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumielles/pseuds/Lumielles
Summary: I really am unsure how to summarize this fic.  It's kind of like Space!This Is Us, in terms of non-linear storytelling through multiple characters, only with Star Wars.  Follow my Consular Idan as he faces off against his Sith half-sister, Gala.  Find out how Echren and Ysia, Idan's parents, met.  Learn how Idan reunited with his mother, but it was too late to matter.  It's going to feel a bit like a Star Wars dramedy, spread out through several generations, focusing on a terribly dysfunctional family that is nearing Skywalker levels of "Galaxy-destroying Disaster Family".  One that both my Jedi Consular Idan, and his daughter Aramys, my Sith Inquisitor, belong to.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 4





	1. Nar Shaddaa is for Lovers

**Chapter One**

NAR SHADDAA

_3702 BBY / 49 BTC_

Until this moment, Ysia had been unaware slot machines could growl. On any other day, it wouldn’t have worried her; the misfortune of this day was that when the machine gargled like a starved rancor, her arm halfway up its mechanism. Just as she’d been unaware that slot machines could growl, she also found herself unsure as to whether or not they could bite her arm off. 

She slapped her free hand against the side of it, sending a hollow thud vibrating through to her arm, “Don’t you dare eat my arm too, you lousy piece of—“

“See!?” wailed the patron who stood over her shoulder, hovering and smacking her lips, “I told you it ate all two thousand of my credits! Didn’t even spin!”

“Two thousand?” she craned her neck back to look at the middle-aged Neimoidian woman, “I thought you said five hundred?”

“No! It was two thousand! I won’t let you cheat me out of my money. I told you it was two thousand—How could you not believe me! I’ve been coming here longer than you’ve been alive, Aramysia!”

“Mrs. Chimmeen,” Ysia said slowly as she stood, wiping a dust-covered hand on her pants as she pulled it from the inner workings of the slot machine. Her tone was pleasant and gentle, but detectibly forced as her tight-lipped, doe-eyed ‘Customer Service’ smile. Just as her mother always taught her. “I didn’t say I didn’t believe you. My apologies, I must have misheard you.”

Her tongue flicked behind her clenched teeth, silently forming curse words she would never dare to say. To her face. Least the tale found its way back to her mother as it always did when Ysia would talk back to Mrs. Chimmeen. _‘A highly valued customer!’_ her mother would scold as she wagged her finger, _‘Loyalty is important when trying to run a business!’_

“Maybe all that jewelry in your face is affecting your hearing,” she harrumphed.

All Ysia do was blink as she struggled to keep down the overwhelming desire to strangle Mrs. Chimmeen. Her mother would never forgive her. There would be two murderers in the family that day, but only one would live to talk about it.

“Maybe,” she nodded.

“Do your parents allow it?”

“They do,” she tried to hold back her sarcasm, failing slightly.

Mrs. Chimmeen narrowed her fish-bowl eyes and tilted her large head that looked as if her long, slender neck could barely support it, “I find it hard to believe that your mother accepts your facial… adornments. If they were religious, I would understand, but just to alter your appearance? Your mother is a decent woman; I’m sure she doesn’t say anything to save your feelings.”

Ysia’s knees met the ground again as she decided that the slot machine taking her arm wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen today, “Mmhmm, they certainly don’t make them like her anymore, do they?”

_Thank the stars for that; she_ thought as she wondered if she could crawl inside the slot machine entirely to escape the conversation. 

“So? How long is this going to take? Will I be compensated for my lost time?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have the authority to do that,” she threaded her arm back up through the credit drop, nimble fingers feeling for the lodged credit she assumed had to be blocking the machine. But there was none. With each passing second, it seemed this machine had finally given up. “That’s the third one this week.”

“Do you have my credits?”

“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Chimmeen, but you’ll have to go to the front desk to solve this issue further—“

“I want my credits, I’m not leaving this spot without them,” she said, and Ysia knew she meant it, “I don’t have time to go bouncing around place to place. Just solve the problem.”

“I’m afraid this slot machine,” Ysia gestured dramatically to the slot machine she was practically sitting inside, “Isn’t capable of doing anything right now. For your credits, you will have to go to the front desk and--”

“This is your machine’s mistake, you should be the one to fix it,” Mrs. Chimmeen crossed her arms, the bangles on her wrists clinking together loudly enough to be heard over someone winning at a nearby machine. White noise to her, she’d grown up here, but still, she looked over at the flashing light atop the flashing machine. Two tall men were celebrating their win, scooping the credits that came out into a small pouch one held open. It was nice to see someone enjoying the afternoon. The two weren’t the usual type to stop by a tiny casino on the wrong side of the Duros Sector. Their clothes were clean, pressed, and tailored to fit their equally broad shoulders.

“Aramysia,” two fingers snapped in front of her, “Did you hear me?”

Mrs. Chimmeen’s voice carried across the room as she shrieked in Ysia’s ear, catching the attention of the winning pair. Ysia quickly turned her gaze to the floor as she stood once again. There was nothing left to be done about the old slot machine.

“Yes,” she said, “I heard you.”

“And you’re going to fix it then?”

“Ma’am, to get your credits back, you’ll need access to your account with us. I don’t have that information, only you do.”

“Can’t you just look up my password?”

“No. No, we can’t.”

A staring contest had begun, unprompted; Ysia would have won if it hadn’t been for the shadow that suddenly came to loom over the both of them. If there had been any sunlight this deep in the city, he would have blocked it out. Instead, the taller of the two winning men was outlined by cheap, yellow-white light; smoke from cigarras hanging thick in the air behind him.

“Excuse me,” he said, his voice smooth with a refined accent that stuck out more than his absurd height, especially given the part of town he was in, “I’m afraid I have a bit of an emergency.”

“Go find someone else, can’t you see she’s busy?” Mrs. Chimmeen spun to the young man, “Humans are the rudest creatures.”

The man chuckled, flashing a gapped, but endearing smile as he swiped a hand through black hair, “I would, but I fear the situation may be, um, time-sensitive. You see, my friend, he’s gotten the end of his lekku trapped in one of the slot machines the next room over,” he pointed to the wall behind Mrs. Chimmeen, “We can’t seem to get it out, and I’m afraid he’ll start making a scene.”

“His lekku?” Ysia repeated with exaggeration and feigned shock, “Oh, stars! That is an emergency! He could start to lose circulation to his brain...”

“Ah, yes,” the man caught on quickly and nodded furiously, “That’s exactly what we’re worried about.”

“Oh my,” Mrs. Chimmeen brought a hand to her chest.

“You understand the direness of the situation, don’t you, ma’am? Would you mind if I helped them, or would you like me to spend ten minutes of very precious time personally escorting you to the front desk so someone else can assist you?”

The man’s eyebrows rose. The urgency in Ysia’s voice had stunned the Neimoidian, masking her passive aggressivity with practiced grace.

“Dear me, yes, go!” she flapped her hand, “Help them, I’ll go to the front desk as you suggested earlier. I’m sure I’ll find someone who can help me.”

Ysia’s hands clapped together as she bound them behind her own back with an invisible rope she had to imagine. If she didn’t, she might kill this woman. Like she probably had her first three husbands.

“I know we’ll get those two thousand credits returned to you as soon as we can,” Ysia began to bow her head.

“Three thousand.”

“ _Three_ thousand. Of course.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” the man tilted his head, his hand reaching up for a hat that wasn’t there. 

Ysia noticed his half-bow was stiff; his right elbow seemed to want to bend in a salute. Military.

“Smana Chimmeen,” Mrs. Chimmeen held out her hand.

“Echren Teern,” he said, barely bringing the back of her wrinkled hand to his lips, “It’s unfortunate we didn’t meet under better circumstances, Mrs. Chimmmeen.”

“Please,” she giggled, “Call me Smana.”

“Smana,” Echren breathed onto the back of her hand before letting it go, “What a lovely name.”

“Ah!” she clapped her hands together in glee.

As Mrs. Chimmeen continued to swoon, Ysia rolled her eyes. This guy. He knew how to lay on the charm thick. She scowled as her eyes followed his long square jawline to a rather prominent chin. It didn’t look out of place beneath his narrow hawk-like nose. Triangularly oval eyes sat beneath heavy black eyebrows that quirked upwards as Mrs. Chimmeen playfully slapped his chest. Ysia squinted as Echren carefully peeled her hand off his shirt, wondering if ‘triangularly oval’ was a description that made sense.

“We should probably go help that friend of yours,” Ysia cleared her throat.

“Yes, my friend,” Echren’s eyes widened, “Please, after you.”

Ysia offered a limp wave goodbye to Mrs. Chimmeen, but the woman’s eyes were too busy being plastered to the back of Echren’s head to notice. 

Falling into stride beside him, Ysia could guess that the top of her head lined up with his ear. She wasn’t considered short for a human, but she felt short with him so close. His upper body barely seemed to move, like there was a blaster rifle hidden up his ass. She’d certainly been right about guessing he was military. But now the military he belonged to was apparent.

“I thought you Imperials were supposed to be hiding,” she said as they rounded the corner.

Somehow Echren managed to stiffen further, “I’m sorry?”

“Nothing,” Ysia scrunched her face, pushing back the frizzy brown fly-aways that had fallen out of the unkempt bun a the base of her neck, “I haven’t seen you with a Twi’lek the entire two days you’ve been staying here.”

“And here I was worried you hadn’t noticed me,” Echren stopped behind a line of betting kiosks that seemed to be ignored by the three patrons in the room.

“I work here. I’m paid to notice.”

“You looked like you needed an excuse to get away,” he ran his hand through his hair again.

“I had it handled,” Ysia said proudly, “But... I appreciated the help.”

“I’m Echren Teern,” he offered his hand to her.

Knowing hers were covered in sweat and little cuts from prying around inside a slot machine, she clasped her hands behind her back, “I heard.”

“May I ask you of your name, then?” he said, too formal for her. Yes. This man was undoubtedly an Imperial. A one raised in money. Having met her share of sneaky travelers from the self-isolated Sith Empire, she could only guess that at some point, she’d be hearing how his great-something grandfather was a Sith Lord of renown power.

“You may,” she answered with a cocked eyebrow.

“Will I get an answer?” 

“No promises,” she said flatly.

Generally by now, the tourist would grow weary of her dodging and give up. Or at least give it one last try.

“Should I try guessing then?”

She couldn’t fight the smile from growing into an amused grin. He was fun, she realized. She could use fun. 

“As much as I’d like that, I have to get back to work,” she said.

“After work then?” he said quickly, “I’m sure you get proposals like this all the time, but... I promise I won’t be here much longer, and then you’ll likely never see me again.”

“Likely?”

“No promises,” he grinned, “We could even get drinks here at the bar if that’d be easier for you.”

Ysia laughed, “No, I know places much better than this. This place is a dump.”

Neyweth Casino and Suites was not, nor had it ever been, a hotspot destination. It was small, dingy, only half of the stuff worked--It was a casino and motel that was mainly patronized by those who needed to avoid the more substantial, fancier casinos. Though it had been in her family for generations. Currently under the control of her grandmother, then her mother, and someday--if all her mother’s dreams came true--Ysia herself.

“Is that a yes?” Echren’s hopeful eyes grew larger as he held his breath for her answer.

Desperation wasn’t a good look on many, but something about Echren appeared puppy-like enough that she worried at the thought of disappointing him. Something lodged itself in her throat as he looked down at her expectantly. 

“Yes,” she said before her mind could truly settle on an answer.

Echren’s smile returned, “Thank you. What time should I meet you here?”

“No, don’t meet me here,” Ysia shook her head, more hair falling from her bun and framing her face with wild wavy strands, “I’ll meet you outside the doors. In six hours. I hope that’s not too late for you.”

“No, I’m usually up quite late.”

“Of course you are.”

She couldn’t figure out if she was annoyed by his persistence or enamored. Both could have been an option, which led to only more confusion as to why she couldn’t make up her mind about him. 

With her mouth open, the tip of her tongue pressed against the back of her teeth to speak. Any words she had died quickly in her throat as she saw her mother standing in the doorway. Chubby brown arms waved back and forth, waving her daughter down as if she were a shuttle at a spaceport. Once she realized she had Ysia’s attention, she dragged her pointer fingers along both sides of her mouth, exaggerating a smile. The Customer Service smile. While she had imaginary visions of her mother coming over to introduce herself, Ysia’s lips stretched into the same fake smile she’d given Mrs. Chimmeen earlier.

“Are you feeling alright?” Echren said worriedly.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Ysia said as the smile faded. She didn’t have to have her mother in her sights to know she was already on her way over. It was a feeling, one she’d come to always be on the lookout for, “I have to get back to work.”

“Oh--” Echren leaped out of her way as she took off back the way they came, “Six hours, right?”

“Six hours,” Ysia confirmed over her shoulder.

Her mother was trying to block the door, but her small chubby frame wasn’t enough to block even half of it. Past round but wrinkled cheeks, she glared at Ysia as she walked around her.

“Ysia!” her mother hissed in a whisper as she gave chase, “Aramysia, get over here!”

“I’m on my shift, mother, can it wait?” she dipped into the hotel lounge and bar, more empty than the backroom she’d just been in. Jukebox music played, skipping every few beats. It still wasn’t enough to drown out her mother’s angry panting as she followed her.

“Mrs. Chimmeen said you refused to help her--Came to the front desk saying you were helping a Twi’lek who was stuck--”

“He said his friend had lekku, not that he was a Twi’lek,” Ysia corrected under her breath.

“That boy didn’t look like a Twi’lek to me, young lady.”

“It was his friend. I helped his friend, his friend left. The boy stayed behind to thank me.” Ysia stopped in front of a dirty abandoned table, empty glass strewn about it.

“Did he tip you?”

“No, he did not.”

Her mother clicked her tongue in disapproval, “Did you refuse to help Mrs. Chimmeen?”

“I’m starting to wish I had,” Ysia growled, grabbing some of the glasses and heading to the bar.

“I didn’t think that sounded like you. I know you get along well with Smana.”

Ysia stepped behind the bar, nodding to the bartender. Her father. He finished loading a serving droid tray with fresh drinks, grunting as he made room for the droid to get around him. He ran a long-fingered hand down his salt and peppered beard as he looked out at the nearly empty lounge area.

“Give our Issy a break, no one gets along with Smana,” chuckled Nael, “Not even you.”

“Shut up, will you, she’s still here,” Geera guffawed, smacking her husband’s arm from over the bar counter, “You know how much money we’ll lose if we piss her off?”

“She always lies about how many credits she loses,” Ysia scoffed, but her parents were too busy laughing to hear her.

Ysia shook her head as she deposited the dirty glasses in the sink. They all reflected the bright neon light that lined the bar and shelves behind it. So much for that customer loyalty they were always lecturing her about.


	2. The Brothers Pudd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Kaas City, 63 years before the Treaty of Coruscant, two brothers do what they have to to survive and to please their stern drunkard father. Pickpocketing is hard on a good day, but when the upper markets of Kaas City are empty due to terrible weather, it's near impossible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who hate math, myself included, this chapter takes place 88 years before the Onslaught update, and 14 years before Chapter One of this fic! :)

**Chapter Two**

DROMUND KAAS

_3716 BBY / 63 BTC_

A holorecording of an officer looped from a projector off in the opposite corner of the small shopping area; her voice bounced off the walls of the remarkably clean alley between two shops. A proud looking Imperial trooper appeared in the officer’s place once her message was finished. The trooper removed his helmet, winked at no one in particular, and told the lack of people gathered beneath him that joining the Imperial armed forces changed his life. The woman reappeared quickly, returning once again with her heartfelt, but oddly brief, story of how the Emperor desperately needed young men and women to build an army to take back with the Republic stole. To return to the galaxy in glory.

The young boy, no older than nine, pulled at his ear lobe as the woman’s voice continued to annoy him. He’d been listening to her and the trooper monologue to no one for three hours and could repeat their messaged verbatim. Thin lips mouthed their words in mockery; a tongue appeared from between his gapped teeth every few syllables. Narrowed eyes scanned the small square. It’s metal-plated ground scattered with puddles from the on and off rainfall. 

“One more, you think?” his older brother asked over his shoulder.

“I dunno,” the boy spun on his heel, boot squeaking against the wet ground, “Did you finish counting it?”

“Hold on, Ech, give me a second—Emperor’s balls, we’re fucked,” his brother’s face fell, closing the pouch of stolen credits and valuables they’d managed to accumulate into the sleeve of his worn and pilled sweater.

“It’s not our fault,” Echren kicked at a puddle, immediately regretting the action as it splashed into his untied boot, “Nobody wants to go shopping when the weather is like this—Why did dad send us here?”

The question went unanswered; his brother’s attention had been won by the influential looking businessman leaving the salon to their immediate left. Echren gave the Pureblooded man a quick once over, deeming him too high a risk. A conclusion his brother had yet to realize.

“Rillon!” Echren pushed his hand against his brother’s stomach.

“Hands off me, womprat,” Rillon shoved him back in retaliation.

“Not ‘im,” he protested, “Dad says people like him probably have trackers in their wallets.”

“Then you pick someone,” he thwap of his brother’s hand hitting the back of his head made Echren’s ears ring.

“ _Stop!”_ he whined.

“Since when do you listen to dad, anyway?”

Echren scanned the shopping center once again, moving his eyes from left to right slowly, pretending he was a survey droid. Before his brother turned seventeen and decided he was too old for pretending, the two of them would imagine they were on a reconnaissance mission. Retrieve artifacts stolen by the Republic without blowing one's cover as an Imperial spy. It made the stealing seem less like stealing. It made him feel like a criminal and more like the person he wished to one day be. A rickety-looking human woman exited the jewelry store across from the alley they were hidden in, catching his attention.  Her white hair had pulled back to show off dazzling crystal-encrusted earrings that stretched both her earlobes all that much closer to the ground.

“The old woman,” Echren said under his breath.

“Ah,” Rillon leaned over, hovering his head above his brother’s shoulder, “Yeah, how much do you wanna bet that she just picked up a sparkly new heirloom for ‘er grandkids to inherit?”

“You first this time?” Echren looked over to him.

Rillon’s sandy brown hair had fallen over his left eye, his bangs flying wildly from a cowlick at the right corner of his forehead. Brown eyes, the same color as Echren’s, brightened as Rillon gave him an approving smile.

“Only fair,” he stood, “You baited the last one.”

“What’s the approach?” Echren asked stiffly, as he had seen officers do in holos. Still playing pretend even though Rillon had stopped.

“I’m a new Sith apprentice, still not used to the upper part of the city. I’m lost. Where is the Citadel—blah blah blah,” he rolled his brown eyes as he puppeted with his hand.

“You?” Echren snorted to hold back a yelp of laughter, “An apprentice? Do Sith wear sweaters now?”

“Like she’s going to notice; she’s a thousand years old,” Rillon scowled, stepping around Echren. He turned to bow at the end of the alley, “Wish me luck, womprat.”

“Good luck,” Echren sighed.

Rillon turned on his act of a scared and lost apprentice in the time it took Echren to blink. Shoulders had drawn up to his jaw defensively, arms wrapped around himself in worry as he cast hypervigilant glances from side to side. Echren’s approach typically involved him losing his parents in one of the stores. He would bed for the target to stay with him until he found them, attracting their attention with giant fat tears and sobbing as Rillon would pretend to be a worried bystander and sneak up behind. As Rillon neared their current target, Echren left the safety of the shadows, taking off across the center in the opposite direction.

By the time Echren came up behind the old woman, Rillon had already caught her attention. He was still babbling about how his new master was going to have his head. He took a sharp panicked inhale as the woman started to look over her shoulder, where Echren currently stood with his hand reaching into her pristine nexu fur coat.

“I have to get there as fast as possible,” Rillon said sharply.

“You’re on the wrong side of the city, dear,” she said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

Echren grabbed the first thing his fingertips touched, pulling it out of her coat and slipping it into his sleeve with the hands of a well-trained illusionist. 

“I am?” Rillon shrieked, “Oh, I’m doomed!”

Two steps backward; Echren made sure to count them just in case. One. Two. Turn and walk away. Quiet footfalls, don’t alert the target. It was something he’d done enough times that it was more muscle memory and habit than intention. Not back to the alley they’d come from, that was a rookie move. Echren left the shopping center casually, making his way to divey cantina he and Rillon had agreed to meet at earlier after their last score.

The deeper he went into the city, the slimier the walls became. Rusted durasteel grating made sidewalks through the multiple underground levels of the Kaas City slums. It wasn’t uncommon for entrances to the upper city to be closed during bad weather; the stairwells often became rivers during heavy rainfall. Thankfully the rain today had been light enough that the eastern entrance was open, spitting Echren out right where he needed to be. 

From his sleeve, he procured the item he’d managed to swipe off the old woman. A string of hand-rolled red clay pearls hung between his fingers. Worthless. Echren mimicked his older brother, throwing his hands into his hair and running them through to the back of his head. With a grunt, he crossed his arms over his chest. He was better than this. Heavy footsteps made him turn back to the stairwell, where Rillon leaped the last four steps.

“Well?” he rested his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

“Why’d you run?”

“I like running.”

“You’re not gun’ like it,” Echren mumbled, unfolding his arms.

Rillon took the pearls from his brother’s outstretched hand, “Korriban sand pearls?” he shouted, holding the jewelry close to this face, “They’re worthless! Emperor’s balls, Ech, dad’s really gun’ kill us this time.”

“You always say that.”

“I mean it this time,” Rillon gulped, looking at the cantina before them like it was the gates to hell.

“He’ll be madder if we’re late.”

Rillon nodded with a soft neck. He took his brother by the shoulder and pushed his through the cantina entrance, right past the glowing sign prohibiting droids. Old music, decades older than both of them, played mercilessly from the jukebox by the far wall. Patrons lined the bar and filled the tables. Smoke and the smell of used spice clung to the air so heavily that Echren could feel the scent coating his tongue. A small group of wandering Sith apprentices were huddle at a table, all wearing black robes. Rillon’s jealous stare was something Echren felt more than saw. He wanted to be like them, belonging to something in that way. He’d expressed his desire before, so much so that he didn’t both to bring it up now, knowing it went unsaid.

In the green-tinted darkness of the far corner, the least populated corner of the establishment sat a broad and bulky man, glaring at them with the one eye he had left; the remnants of his left eye socket covered by a permanent durasteel plate. The small green table lamp did little to illuminate other than his thick arm as it rested on the table. A half-finished plate of meat chunks, and the discarded bones already sucked clean, sat at his other elbow. Echren’s stomach growled as he saw the food, he hadn’t eaten since the morning. Something he was now nauseously aware of.

“You’re late,” their father garbled past the meat he still chewed on, shaking greasy hair away from his face.

Echren stood on his toes so he could sit in the chair beside Grigor, their father. The scent of several hard liquors burned his nose even though not a single bottle sat on the table. It had been two weeks since their father had promised to stop drinking for Echren’s birthday; it’d been the only thing he asked for. He had to give his father some credit, at least. Last year he hadn’t even put in the effort of hiding his failure to stop.

“You picked a shit day for the upper markets,” Rillon snapped, tossing the tied-off pouch of loot onto the table, “Rained for five hours. No one wanted to go out unless they had to.” He didn’t take a seat, but instead, he stood behind Grigor, glaring at his father’s short oily ponytail on the back of his head.

Grigor grunted his response, pushing his plate further aside and grabbed the pouch with a hand that could easily wrap around Echren’s skull. He jumped the bag a few times in his hand, the items shifted with soft metallic clanking, before he dropped it onto the table.

“Is this a joke?” he ran a hand down his scraggly bearded face, “Forty credits, a wedding ring, and—“ he picked up the pearls between his thumb and forefingers, crushing one of the beads to dust beneath thick fingers—“sand pearls?”

“I said the weather drove everyone away!” Rillon snapped defensively.

“I send you two to the richest neighborhood in the city, and you bring me back garbage!”

“Dad, can I have one?” Echren whispered as cautious fingers reached for his father’s plate of unidentified seared meat.

“Only when I think you’ve earned it!” he whipped the credit against the back of Echren’s knuckles.

He retracted his hand as he winced, making sure not to cry out. He’d be mocked otherwise. 

“Don’t yell at him!” Rillon shouted over the music that how somehow gotten worse, “It shouldn’t be our responsibility to feed our family!”

“Family,” Grigor scoffed, stretching out his legs under the table.

“Go on, Ech, you can eat,” Rillon urged.

Echren shrank into himself under his father’s heavy single blue-eyed stare. Apologies were useless here; they were never considered sincere.

“No, it’s okay,” he said meekly, “I’ll wait until we get home.”

Grigor scoffed, “You’ve got the backbone of a moss snail.”

“Moss snails don’t need backbones, they have shells,” Rillon said, resting a hand on the back of Echren’s chair.

“Shells break when they’re stepped on.”

“Then _stop stepping on them_ ,” Rillon narrowed his eyes as he snarled, “You don’t get to talk, anyway. You’re the laziest of us—“

Grigor stood with enough force to make the table leap, Echren curled into himself as his father’s hand flew over his head and grabbed Rillon by the collar of his sweater. Though the two were of equal, above-average height, Grigor still outweighed his oldest child and out-muscled him. Rillon squinted, blinking away tears that rose as the aroma from Grigor assaulted his senses as he was shoved against the wall at his back. The boy grunted as the wind was knocked out of him, his head spinning to the beat of the antique music.

“While you live in my house, you still respect me,” Grigor stood eye to eyes with his son, pressing the knuckles of the fist wrapped around his sweater harder into the boy’s chest, “I’m your father.”

“You won’t be for much longer,” Rillon said boldly.

“Agh,” Grigor groaned loudly, “ Don’t you start up again!”

“When I join the Imperial Navy—“

“I said shut up, you stupid little—“

“I will no longer consider myself your son! I’ll be the—“ Rillon inhaled as his father sank his fist harder against his diaphragm—“I’ll get own ship! I’ll be the Captain—No! General! The youngest in history!”

“You want to die for that coward they call Emperor?” Grigor hissed; the sauce that’d been slathered on his dinner had left a stain at the corners of his mouth, particles of it still clung to his patchy facial hair. He nodded his head to the recruitment poster slapped onto the nearby wall; graffiti had been written across it ‘ _Fuck the Emperor,’_ i said in purple ink, responding directly to the poster’s claim that the Emperor the reader to fight for him. Regain what was lost. Not unlike the messages from the holo that had been on loop from earlier.

“One of these days, you’re going to see my name in the news, ‘General Pudd brings another glorious victory to the Empire as he crushes the Republic under his boot!”

With a vicious shake, Grigor re-pinned his son against the wall, “The only thing you’re going to end up on the news for is because someone found your crumpled dusty corpse in the underbelly of this city and no one around knows who you are. Our family will always be right here, wasting away like your beloved Emperor. Pudds have lived and died in this scraphole for centuries. What makes you think you’re so special, Rill? What does Rillon Pudd have that we all lacked?”

“Dad, stop!” Echren begged, pulling on his father’s stained and ratted shirt sleeve, “People are starting to look!”

“Can’t have that,” Rillon gasped, short of breath.

With one last shake, Grigor let go, “Get the fuck out of here, both of you! You leave the money with me.”

“I need something to buy food with,” Rillon said between heavy breaths, enjoying the freedom his lungs were experiencing now that Grigor wasn’t pushing half his bodyweight down upon his ribcage.

“Here,” Grigor handed him the five credit chip he’d used to hit Echren’s hand with.

“That’ll buy fuck all.”

“You take this, or you take nothing,”

Before Rillon could protest further, Echren had reached up and snatched the credit chip from their father. He then turned on his heel and proceeded to march out of the cantina. 

“Echren!” Rillon called as he attempted to follow, but once again, Grigor’s hammy fist had wrapped around his sweater, “Let go, dad! He’ll get lost. He doesn’t know his way home from here!”

“Maybe that’s what he wants,” Grigor said out of his crooked mouth, “I’d love to run from this family.”

“No one’s stopping you,” Rillon said as he ducked out of his sweater, leaving it in his father’s grasp.

His gray undershirt had visible armpit stains, but they were the least of his worried as he ran after his little brother. Even as he heard the cute sith apprentice, he’d noticed earlier chuckle under his breath as he stormed past them. Echren stood outside the cantina, sniffling as he kicked a used up deathstick on the ground.

“Why do you do that?” he demanded angrily, rubbing at his teary eyes with the back of his hand.

“Are you crying?” Rillon said, half in amusement and half in worry.

“You make him mad on purpose! You say things you know will upset him, and you like doing it, but I hate it!” Echren stomped his foot, and Rillon was abruptly reminded that his little brother was nine years old.

He seemed so grown up most of the time.

“Is that why you left?” he grabbed the top of his brother’s head and ruffled his short black hair.

Echren glared up at his brother, the look on his face was enough of an answer. In Echren’s opinion, the answer should have been so obvious; the question shouldn’t have needed to be asked.

“I’m sorry, Ech,” Rillon’s mouth twitched to the side in a semi-frown, “How about you get to pick what’s for dinner. I’ll keep my big mouth shut.”

“Promise?”

“On my honor.”

Echren paused, something still weighed his thoughts down, something he wanted to say.

“What?” Rillon said, tilting his brother’s chin up.

“It’s only going to get worse when you leave, ya’ know,” Echren said, rubbing the back of his calf with his opposite foot, “He hates me more than he does you.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Rillon said, unsure whether or not he was speaking the truth.

“He _does_ ,” Echren insisted with a whine, “He always says I killed mom.”

“For the last time, wompat, you didn’t kill mom,” he sighed. This was something they’d been over. And over. And over and over again. “Mom was sick.”

“Because of me.”

“I’ve already told you this.”

“Tell me again.”

Rillon’s shoulders rose with another sigh, deeper this time. He was tired, both in general and about this topic, “You were already a part of the picture when she got sick. She would’ve gotten sick even if she hadn’t been pregnant. I’ve told you that a thousand times.”

The nine-year-old’s lower lip stuck out humorously far from the rest of his face as he pouted, overall unconvinced with his brother’s claims of innocence. As long as his father considered him responsible for his mother’s death, it didn’t matter who told him otherwise. Unfortunately for Echren, and fortunately for Rillon, he lacked any more counterpoints.

“I want popcorn for dinner.”

“Popcorn?” Relief washed over Rillon, his stiff and uncomfortable posture deflating, “We can do popcorn. From the street vendor near home?”

“Yeah,” Echren nodded unenthusiastically.

“Can you wait that long? Home’s on the other side of the city—It’s a bit of a walk. Dad didn’t give me enough for a taxi.”

“I just want popcorn,” he shrugged, already defeated by the day’s events.

“Ask, and so shall you receive, Lord Womprat,” Rillon drawled with a fake High Imperial accent, guiding his brother farther into the under-city, his hand resting on his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you thought of this chapter, and even what you hope to see out of this fic! Or anything, anything at all. I'll even accept you're grandma's meatloaf recipe as a review. Or the song you wrote in the shower at 2 in the morning. I love hearing from you guys, nothing you say will be judged here, I am lonely as heck lol

**Author's Note:**

> The Sith Empire is still 'hiding' out in deep space, but that doesn't mean some don't sneak out every now and then to experience a little fun, right?


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